


tonight we dance (tomorrow we’ll fly)

by SmilinStar



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: F/M, post-season 2 finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 13:19:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11082405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmilinStar/pseuds/SmilinStar
Summary: He blinks, eyes travelling back up to her eyes, bluer than blue in this dress, and glinting under the light of the huge chandeliers. “Reluctant, and disinterested?” he repeats, and he’s not sure why he sounds so offended . . .Rip and Sara. Undercover. Dancing. Flirting. Fighting. Literally. Basically a 1x03 redux, of sorts.





	tonight we dance (tomorrow we’ll fly)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes some of what we’ve learnt from the season 3 synopsis into account, so not really spoilers or even speculation tbh, but a heads up anyway if that sort of thing bothers you. I hope you enjoy it :-)

 

][

 

“I’m coming with you.”

There’s no question, no hesitancy, no option for her to say _no, thank you._

Sara takes a calming breath in, bites down a little harder on her tongue, and she wonders that she hasn’t torn her way through it already given the number of times she’s had to hold herself back throughout this meeting. All those haughty stares, barely hidden glares of contempt and accusation. Yes, this mess is their fault. But it’s his too. And _that_ , that is just one of the many things about this whole situation that rankles.

The whole set up is bullshit.

And Rip is the king of it. Literally.

_You are a much better captain than I ever was._

Bull.

_There’s nothing further for me to teach you._

Nope, _but I am gonna go and build myself a Time Council version 2.0, because I’m still the one in charge around here . . ._

She turns to face him, eyes steely and unblinking.

“Why?” she asks, ice freezing and cracking its way through the words. “Don’t trust me to get the job done?”

And there. _There it is_ , she thinks. A slight chink in the armour, and something gives way. The mask slips just a fraction, and she spots a glimmer of something. Regret? Hurt? She doesn’t know which, because, apparently, she never really knew him at all.

He doesn’t answer her. Funny, that. No, instead, he shifts on his feet, one hand slipping into the pocket of the familiar brown coat. The _only_ thing that’s familiar about him.

“It’s dangerous.”

Sara shrugs dismissively, “And? You know I live for the thrill of danger, Rip.”

He shakes his head, looking up at the ceiling of his new office. It has none of the charm or character of his previous. It’s monotone, glass and chrome – impersonal and lifeless. Like this new team of his. It only riles her further. To think on what he gave up. _For this_.

They’re the only two in the room. The rest of his Time Agent subordinates having left once the mission details had been relayed, and all the rules of what she can and can’t do repeated ad nauseam until she was rolling her eyes so hard backwards, she’s surprised they’re not stuck in place. The rest of the team were very specifically not invited, and well, that had gone down about as well as could be expected.

Mick had been ready to _burn the skinny little Englishman alive_ , there’d been a healthy grumbling, of “who the hell does he thinks he is?!” all the way around, and Martin had simply shaken his head like a disappointed father, and muttered something along the lines of “what _happened_ to him?”

And that’s exactly what she’s been wondering for the past five months.

Sara had been under the impression that he’d needed time to regroup, to go off and find himself; and after the hell he’d been through, she hadn’t been able to begrudge him that. But this? This had been unexpected. This? _This hurt._

The man that looks back at her, sighing heavily in exasperation, is achingly familiar and yet not.

“Be serious, Sara,” he huffs out.

“Oh, I am deadly serious, when am I not?” It’s a rhetorical question, she doesn’t wait for an answer as she barrels on, “and anyway, I am more than capable of handling myself.”

“I know you are,” he retorts, gaze unflinching and with an intensity she never knew she missed.

“Well, great,” she says, throwing out her arms, before dropping them down to her sides, hands slapping against her thighs. “Glad that’s sorted. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to go and get ready.”

She turns to leave again, but he calls out once more, “Sara? Sara!”

She stops, spins back, can’t help herself from spitting out her next words. “Why do you even care?”

Her question seems to frustrate him, as he blows out a breath. “Of course I _care_ , Sara!”

The twist of her lips and the disbelieving huff tells him just how much she believes that to be true, and it’s enough to piece back his armour, let the mask fall firmly into place, as he tightens his jaw and his eyes harden. He says nothing more on the topic, leaves no room for argument, or misinterpreting his intentions. “I’ll see you there, Captain Lance.”

He turns around then, moves back behind his desk and doesn’t look her way again.

She doesn’t waste another glance either.

Slams the door on her way out.

And doesn’t hang around to watch him flinch.

 

][

 

It’s not that Rip hasn’t tried.

Oh, he’s tried numerous times to explain himself. They just don’t want to listen.

And by _they_ he means his old team, his old ragtag group of would-be Legends. And yes, he knows very well he’d been a part of that team. Knows he’s just as responsible for the mangled mess they’ve made of Time. Which is why he can’t understand why it’s so hard for them to grasp _why_ he’s doing this? Why he’s built this Time Bureau? He thinks its necessity is self-explanatory. He would have thought at least Martin, or Dr Palmer, even Ms Jiwe, _Sara_ , would have understood that at least.

But no. All he’s been on the receiving end of are cold stares and the snide, cutting remarks befitting a traitor.

Which, if he’s honest, stings.

Stings in a way he hadn’t expected.

Because he’s only trying to fix this, the best way he knows how.

One broken piece at a time.

Which brings him here, to this ridiculously expensive and extravagant shindig, standing awkwardly and uncomfortably on the side-lines, his bow tie too tight and the shirt of his tux scratchy and stiff.

A waiter walks past him then, offering a flute of champagne. He swipes one without looking as he tries to focus his attention on the task at hand. Rip scans the large ballroom as surreptitiously as he can, trying not to draw attention to himself as he keeps a lookout for their target – the very man who owns this mansion. The man who’s thrown this extravagant party with money he’s making from selling technology that hasn’t been created for at least two centuries yet.

And that is down to the fact that Lars Bergman should not have been born for another two hundred years. Somehow the future tech genius has found himself flung two-hundred years into the past, and being quite the entrepreneur has found the profit margins in the twist of fate he’s been dealt. And since this is technically their doing, it falls to them to fix it. Only problem with that being, getting anywhere within a foot of Mr Bergman without a sniper being aimed at your back is proving impossible. With lots of money, comes paranoia. And for a dangerous man, with a lot to lose, that means a kill squad for a security detail.

Lucky for them, their target has a rather obvious Achilles heel.

And that Achilles heel?

Happens to be female, blonde and beautiful, and walking down the grand staircase right now.

Sara Lance, former member of the League of Assassins, is certainly equipped with the skills of stealth. She’s terrifyingly good at making herself invisible. But it would seem she’s just as adept at making herself the centre of attention.

It’s hard not for his eyes to be drawn to her. And he’s not the only one.

Male and female gazes alike swivel in her direction, like new shoots breaking the earth barrier and searching for sun. Jealousy, admiration, desire, if he were to hazard a guess, buzzes around the room.

In a dark blue, floor length gown, she’s stunning. And if that wasn’t enough to capture their mark’s attention, well, the man certainly understands money, and the sparkling diamond necklace adorning her bare décolletage should definitely get him salivating.

Sara descends the stairs, taking in her surroundings and putting on a show of awe, and somehow despite the hundreds of people, her eyes find his. Across the expanse of a full ballroom, and she still manages to find him.

He swallows. Hard.

She makes a beeline straight for him, her eyes not leaving his and he has trouble remembering that this isn’t the plan they’ve agreed upon.

And it’s hard for him to argue the point, not when she’s suddenly there, standing in front of him, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek that lingers longer than strictly necessary. He freezes, skin burning as she tilts her head back and then rubs at the spot with her thumb, wiping away the red of her lipstick stain.

“Here you are, honey,” she says with a smile, arms winding their way around his neck, eyes twinkling with mischief, “been looking for you.”

He clears his throat, feels the rest of the room’s eyes on them as he forces a smile onto his face, and says through gritted teeth, “Well, you’ve found me.”

He gently extricates her arm from around his neck, pulling her onto the dancefloor. He spins her around into position, hand finding hers, the other curving its way around her waist as he tugs her in close, whispering furiously into her ear, “What the hell are you playing at Sara?”

Her breath is hot against his neck, “Relax. Trust me, this’ll work way better than what your suits came up with.”

Rip shakes his head, takes a deep breath in and out, before pulling away to put a little distance between them. A quick flicker of a glance around the room tells him everyone has redirected their focus back away from them as the orchestra starts up a slow waltz.

“Right,” he says, voice low, “it has nothing to do with you being angry at me about the Bureau then? Because, somehow, I find that hard to believe given you’re doing the exact _opposite_ of what _we_ planned. I was supposed to disappear into the background, Sara, now you’ve gone and put me right on Bergman’s radar!”

He catches the smirk playing on her lips as she continues to look over his shoulder. For a self-confessed poor dancer, she certainly keeps in time with him and the music. It’s as effortless as everything else seems to be for her.

“I’m just sweetening the pot. Making the chase a little harder.” She pulls back a fraction then, slips the hand resting on his shoulder up behind his neck, fingers brushing through his hair, against his bare skin as she meets his gaze with her own, still as icy as ever, and he wonders if that’s all she’s doing. “The man always wants what he can’t have,” she continues, “I’m sure we have his full attention now.”

He manages to lift his gaze from the trappings of hers and notes, much to his chagrin, she’s right. Bergman can’t look away.

“Fine,” he breathes out, turning his head back in her direction, “we’ll do it your way.”

She smiles, it’s slow and teasing, and he can’t help the fact his gaze drops down to her lips, like a moth to a flame.

He barely hears her as she says, “Ok, so you keep doing the reluctant, disinterested thing, and I’ll just-”

He blinks, eyes travelling back up to hers, bluer than blue in this dress, and glinting under the light of the huge chandeliers. “Reluctant, and disinterested?” he repeats, and he’s not sure why he sounds so offended.

Sara doesn’t miss a beat, “He’ll think he’s doing me a favour, rescuing me from a loveless marriage . . .”

 _Right,_ he thinks, _of course._

“And then what?” he asks, and immediately by the calculated grin on her face wishes he hadn’t. She leans forward and presses another, very deliberate, kiss to his cheek, and this time doesn’t bother with wiping away the print of her lipstick.

“I’m gonna go _powder my nose_ ,” she steps back, turning away with a wink.

He knows he’s blushing almost as red as the colour of her lips.

Reluctant, and _disinterested._

He thinks she may be the only one in this room who thinks so.

 

][

 

Deviating from the plan had never been her intention.

But then she’d spotted Rip in the crowd, dressed immaculately, and looking more handsome than he had any right to, and the stutter in her footsteps matched the stutter in her chest, and the fire of anger and hurt that had been lit under her skin was roaring away once again with one look.

She doesn’t really think too hard about it as she glides up in front of him, the ice in her veins melting to mischief as she just makes the rest of the plan up as she goes along. There’s some satisfaction gained in his anger at her turning their original plan on its head. Just as much as there is in her sticking her middle finger up at the Time Bureau and forcing him to do the same. It doesn’t do a whole lot, though, to combat her irritation at him being so damn unaffected by her no matter how hard she tries to ruffle his feathers.

It bothers her more than it should.

And it’s not something she needs to be dwelling on now. Not when Bergman’s raging libido has led him straight into her web.

As predicted he follows her to the restroom, stands waiting outside like the worst sort of predator, leaving behind his tail of bodyguards, hovering at the far end of the hallway in an attempt to create some semblance of privacy.

She fawns over him, stroking his ego about _the beautiful party_ and _his beautiful house_ , and tries not to break his hands when he runs a finger along her exposed collarbone and up the side of her neck.

She blushes, and plays the coy _I really should be getting back to my husband, he’ll be wondering where I am_ card.

The disgusting lecher counters predictably with a wag of his eyebrows and comments about _a woman of her taste needing a man who can really appreciate her_ and blocks her escape path. The slow crawl of his gaze makes her want to claw out his eyes, but she simpers prettily instead, and allows herself to be backed into the wall of the abandoned corridor.

She wonders again why she can’t just stick a dagger into his carotid and be done with it. She thinks the twenty-second century will be a better place without him in it, but nope. Rip and his Bureau had made it expressly clear, that she was to use minimal force only, hence the tranquiliser hidden away under the skirt of her dress.

She doesn’t get to use it though. There’s the sudden distraction of his goons yelling down the hallway, followed by the unmistakeable sound of knuckles cracking and grunts of pain. She’d breathe a sigh of relief if it weren’t for her heart sinking into the pit of her stomach when she spots just who it is that’s taking the beating. Thankfully, Bergman’s amorous attentions come to a screeching halt, but that reprieve is only undone by his guards marching up towards them, dragging Rip along with them.

Head lolling forwards, bruised cheek, bleeding lip, for one horrifying moment she thinks the worst, but then Rip’s forcing his head up and meeting her gaze head on, telling her everything she needs to know without speaking a word, and he’s right where he needs to be.

Understanding dawns on Bergman’s slimy face as he looks between them.

When his dumbstruck gaze stills on her, she gives him her best pout, before kneeing him in the groin. Hard. 

Rip uses the moment to get himself free of his captors, grabbing hold of his laser gun, shooting them each with pinpoint precision, just enough to disarm and disable, but Bergman’s still blinking tears of pain and confusion to realise what’s happening. She punches him in the face and he stumbles backwards just as Rip knocks the last of his henchmen out.

They don’t have a lot of time. Sara’s sure the man has round the clock surveillance installed in every hidden corner of this house and it’s probably what he’s banking on to save his skin.

Whatever hope he has of being rescued, Sara does away with proclaiming themselves to be the FBI. She figures its close enough; and Rip just rolls his eyes. She’s not sure if the man believes her. In any case, with Rip’s gun pressing into the back of his neck, and Sara’s dagger (to which Rip only gave a short cursory glance and looked not the slightest bit surprised) hovering dangerously close to his prized manhood, Bergman gives himself up easily, and she doesn’t even have to knock him out.

She doesn’t, but apparently Rip does.

It’s once they’re safely ensconced in his jump ship that he does it – foregoes the tranquiliser she holds up in offer and punches him out cold with one blow.

She raises her eyebrow, an impressed, if somewhat questioning, smile playing on her lips despite herself.

Because she’s still pissed as hell at him. _She is._

Rip clenches and unclenches his fist, before shaking it out, meeting her gaze a little sheepishly. “Alright, so maybe your plan was better. Albeit not as clean, or as subtle, but considerably more _fun_ , I can admit to that much.”

And from the way his gaze flickers for the briefest of moments from her eyes to her mouth, so fleeting she _almost_ misses it, she thinks maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe he’s not so unaffected, after all.

“Sara . . .” he starts, and she knows where this is going.

But _not today_.

She’s not ready to hear his reasoning again, not ready to forgive him entirely and maybe it’s because she’s not really ready to pick apart just _why_ it hurts so much. Not yet anyway.

And so she shakes her head, settles into the co-pilot’s chair and cuts him off before he says too much.

“So where to first?”

He purses his lips and nods. Reads her perfectly and doesn’t pursue it any further as he settles in beside her and plots a course for the future.

 

**End.**

 


End file.
